Somebody Else
by Currente.Calamo
Summary: Up and coming reporter Chloe Sullivan, engaged to Jimmy Olsen, sets out after a story and meets a certain billionaire who will drastically change her life. Loosely based on the 40s AU seen in Noir. Story title from Vanessa Rojo's song, Somebody Else, performed by Erica Durance in Noir.
1. It Don't Mean A Thing

**Title:** Somebody Else

**Rating:** M/NC-17 (explicit content later on will be on my LJ - the link's on my homepage - but remain suggestive here due to FF requirements)

**Summary:** Up and coming reporter Chloe Sullivan, engaged to Jimmy Olsen, sets out after a story and meets a certain billionaire who will drastically change her life. Loosely based on the 40s AU seen in_ Noir_.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Note**: In this universe, Chloe never moved to Smallville. Keep in mind also that the social conventions are different in the 40s: women are earning their place as reputable professionals filling the spots left vacant by drafted men (along with being much more open about their sexuality - long live the pin-ups!), but there are still some old-fashioned ideas bouncing around (Chloe is of course a member of the avant-garde). Story title from Vanessa Rojo's song, _Somebody Else_, performed by Erica Durance in _Noir_.

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**Chapter 1. It Don't Mean A Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)**

_May 3rd, 1940_

Chloe was running up the stairs of the _Daily Planet _building - the damn elevator had jammed again, and she could barely feel her feet squashed in her high heeled stompers, let alone keep going as fast as she was in the high waist tight black skirt without breaking a sweat. So much for looking ripe as a cherry for her meeting with Perry - that is if you could call barging in his office with the latest scoop she wanted to screw her nails in a meeting.

This one was a big one, the card up her sleeve that should land her in the ranks of real reporters and no longer have to team up with Jimmy to get on the first page. She'd let Jimmy cover Senator Welsh's visit on his lonesome. Besides, this story that she desperately wanted to tail transcended scandal, blackmail and secrets; the good old senator, on his part, would blurt out some platitudes and, with Lex Luthor's increased shares in the _Planet_ and his support for the established senator, there was a limit to how critically one could report his re-election campaign. The defender of the free press in her roared against corporate media buyouts and mergers, the narrowing focus of the news and the sheer financial irresponsibility of these titanic conglomerates - but with two attempts on her life in the last month, Jimmy had put his foot down and required that for the foreseeable future, she stick to theater reviews and dating tips in her personal column. She wanted to rip his hair out for pulling on her reins, but it was almost impossible to do so with his overly sweet demeanor, his gooey eyes and his "I don't want my _finacée_ to have a scratch on her on the day of the wedding" excuses. So, she'd decided to do what she did best: go behind his back and keep him distracted. If she landed this story, there would be no holding her back, woman or not. With the story that had gotten her into all sorts of trouble last month in her pocket, this one would be icing on the cake. Even panting, she smiled airily as she remembered the delight in Perry's eyes when she had leaked that Ace Chemical was dumping waste into Hob's River near a strand of dream homes on St. Martin Island. Trying to hide his joy, he had mocked her for straying away from her self-imposed role of reporter for the proletariat, but she had cracked his bulldog façade with her usual witty retort: "Even ivory tower vupsters have the right to have babies with ten fingers, ten toes, and two eyeballs!" And it was good to have Perry in her corner; it was the most important puzzle piece for earning widespread respect, for making history - because she had come to think of journalists as the midwives of history.

As she finally arrived at the top of the stairs, she opened the door and stepped in the anteroom to be greeted with the welcoming dulled loud and buzzy sounds of the newsroom and a warm cloud of smoke. Catching her breath and righting her attire in a hurry, she wondered for a moment where she managed to crop up all this energy, what with being the steadfast dame everyone usually depended on. Her life had Cagney and Stanwyck written all over it with the billionaire mogul, the confused damsel (and best friend from college) who chose money over love by marrying said mogul, as well as her sensuous cousin who seemed to have fully embraced underground singing in private lounges and had recently been accumulating mysterious disappearances (making Chloe suspect an affair with one of the rich and dangerous guests of _The Talon_).

At that moment a reporter stormed towards the elevators and got in, furiously pressing the button to go down, and by some miracle, the machinery obeyed. Chloe barely recoiled from growling - this day was not getting off to a great start; no, she had to remain positive - she needed to be clean and fresh and bouncy to earn Perry's approval for her story. Taking quick steps forward, she passed by the first gate to get in the switchboard room where two female operators were busy plugging in and out answering calls, and Chloe took a moment to appreciate that she was one of the few women who got a job here reporting and not stammering the same phrases all day: "This is the _Daily Planet_… The City Room? Just a moment, I'll connect you", "_Daily Planet_… Sports Department? Just a moment…", etc.

A 15-year old office boy who was sitting at a table by the switchboards bending over a crossword puzzle looked up when a reporter came out of the City Room, clanging the gate behind him.

"What's a seven-letter word for -?", he asked the reporter.

"Don't ask me!", the man interrupted. "If I knew any seven-letter words, I'd be something better than a reporter!", he concluded before running to the anteroom when he caught the glimpse of an elevator going down, leaving the office boy to return to his crosswords.

"Hey Skinny", Chloe greeted the 15-year old, walking up to him.

The boy looked up and beamed at her. "Miss Sullivan! I got your coffee ready for you!", he said, his smile growing even wider. Chloe took the cup he was offering and ruffled his hair in thanks, effectively bringing the blood to his cheeks, before making her way to one of the switchboard operators.

"Hello, Maisie."

The woman looked up and offered her a warm smile: "Hey, Chloe! Planning on getting that second big story anytime soon?"

"You know it. Sooner than you think!"

"That's our girl! You show the pants in that room how far charm and brains wrapped in a skirt can carry you."

Chloe chuckled at that, her confidence and mood soaring a bit higher with their support. "Tell me, is the lord of the universe in yet?"

"He is - and in a very bad humor. I think somebody stole one of his crown jewels. Shall I announce you?"

"No, don't worry about it - I'll blow my own trumpet."

She made her way to the iron-grilled gate leading into the City Room, and started to push it open, but suddenly, one of her male co-workers that had just gotten in behind her sprang forward and opened it for her.

"Thanks, Johnny", she said, already knowing who it was because he always arrived around this time, right after her, as she turned her face upwards to look at him. He was a dashing young crime reporter striving to get his first international reporting job as a foreign correspondent in Europe to cover Hitler's rise.*

"Anything for you, sweetheart. Decided to leave the _fiancé_ at the altar yet?"

Chloe smiled sweetly at him: "You sound like a broken record, Johnny. You're gonna have to come up with better lines if you want to whisk me away to the land of war."

"Well, I'll try and gum up the whole works to convince you to divorce him when I come back a hero, if you have made the mistake of marrying him", he answered lightly.

"Holy mackerel! So now, you're munching at the divorce plate before I'm even married. Don't you know that a divorce makes a lady lose faith in herself? It almost gives her a feeling that she wasn't wanted."

"Nonsense. You've got the old-fashioned idea that marriage is something that lasts forever - till _death do you part_. Why, a marriage doesn't mean anything nowadays. It's only a few words mumbled over you by a priest or a judge. We've got something between us nothing can change."

"Is that so?", Chloe inquired, now freely giggling at his antics. "And what exactly is it that is so immovable between us? Other that your customary, albeit clumsy morning gallantry at these gates here?"

"Well, I for one acknowledge your thrill of the chase, and am willing to bring you along for the ride", he half-whispered flirtatiously, punctuating his message with a wink. "But, since you mentioned my mild-manners, should I not get some reward on their account?"

Chloe rolled her eyes good-naturedly before laying a kiss on his cheek and walking through the gates, leaving him staring after her to the sound of the office boy's whistles. As she trekked through the buzzing and long newsroom, her spirits now definitely uplifted, she greeted and was greeted by several. A delivery boy almost ran her over with his cart, profusely mumbling excuses before seeing it was his "_Chloelicious_", as he liked to call her, after which she reminded him half-heartedly that it was Miss Sullivan, and took the letter he gave her to pass on to Jimmy. Continuing on her way down the room, she hit the head of one of the reporters completely absorbed in his work with the telegraph, ensuing a loud protest before he recognized her as well, and she left him with a : "Live a little, Victor". Passing a middle-aged woman, almost an Edna May Oliver type, who was seated at her desk pounding out copy and smoking a cigarette, she stopped in her tracks and came to slap her on the back.

"Hello, Beatrice. How's _Advice to the Lovelorn_?"

"Chloe! I'll be a monkey's uncle! Why aren't you already in there harassing Perry? On second thought, maybe you should go wake up that _fiancé _of yours. He's face planted on his desk. You sure he hasn't been crawling at the lounges of late?"

Chloe sighted lowly, before asking: "Point of information: what does a girl do on waking her _fiancé _and sending him off on a story so she can drag her own weight for a more important one?"

The older woman smiled coyly: "My advice is duck and cross with your right."

Laughing, Chloe moved on and made a turn instead of continuing down to the end of the room where was located the editor's office. Finding herself in front of Jimmy's desk, she saw that he was indeed taking a nap. If only he would be less reticent of sharing the load, he would not have that problem, but it was time to give him a push and transfer some of her positive energy. She tapped loudly on the desk, right by his ear, making him jump in his seat. He looked at her half-dazed, still not fully awake.

"Sleeping on the job… What's the big idea?"

"I don't… I can't…", he mumbled, disoriented.

"_I don't? I can't? _What's gotten into you, Jimmy Olsen? The whole town is hopping with the senator's visit, and you're on the first train to dreamland. Now, I didn't take a job tagging along with just anyone. I picked the best, I tell you. The best. The _Daily Planet_'s never seen a reporter like you and I plan on keeping it that way."

On that ending note to her exhorted speech, she turned around and a solid large body bumped right into her, making her spill her coffee on her blouse: _Fantastic_, she thought. _Just when things were looking up_.

"Oh! Jeez! I'm sorry. Miss Sullivan, we haven't even met yet, and already, I've ruined your blouse", the man with big squared glasses bumbled awkwardly, picking up his dropped papers and pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. He started wiping her blouse with it, trying his best to clean the coffee off her white blouse without touching her, but he was miserably failing at both as he directly pressed his hands against her breasts. Chloe observed him amusedly with raised eyebrows, entertained by his blatant discomfort, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Jimmy wasn't faring any better, barely containing his laughter. "This is very… um, Clark Kent. With a "K", Kent. I'm Clark Kent", the man finished lamely, pushing the glasses up his nose.

Chloe granted him one of her warmest smiles to reassure him, finding his gentleness very enticing and his awkwardness endearing. "Chloe Sullivan, and it's quite all right."

Clark nodded imperceptibly and Chloe watched him as he slowly walked away towards his desk, where he started typing quietly, unlike his desk partner who was almost demolishing the typewriter in his zeal.

"What's with the glasses?", asked Jimmy mockingly, getting up and walking up behind her to put his hands around her waist.

She turned around to address him, and seeing the time on her wrist watch, decided there was no time for small talk or caresses. She pulled out of his arms, drew the letter she had taken for him out of the waistband of her skirt, and laid it on his desk.

"Special delivery from the mailroom." When his phone rang, and he was still standing there, entranced, looking at her as if she had just caught the moon for him by hand-delivering a letter, she decided to wake him up so she could get back on her own schedule: "So what, I'm supposed to answer your phone now, too?"

At that, Jimmy shook himself and, smiling sheepishly, sat back in his seat to pick up the telephone receiver: "Hello? Olsen here."

Satisfied, Chloe swiftly reached the main aisle and made it to the end, pausing before the frosted glass partition which separated the Editor in Chief's office from the rest of the newsroom. As she opened the door, she found Perry shaving with an electric razor and Louie, who from her knowledge, worked nighttime at the casino, holding a mirror up in front of him.

"A little more round the chin, Boss", Louie instructed.

As Chloe let the door close behind her, the sound echoed in the room, and Perry, without looking up, grunted: "What do you want?"

"Why, I'm surprised, Mr. White. That's no way to talk to your favorite up and coming reporter. She did, after all, deliver you one of the biggest stories of the year just last month. Beat the whole country to the scoop."

Perry met her eyes then, and grinned at her snarky greeting: "Hello, Sullivan!"

"Hello, Perry. Hi, Louie - how's the slot machine king?"

"Oh, I ain't doing that any more", Louie announced proudly. "I'm retired. I'm one of you fellas now - a newspaper man."

"Editorials?", she asked politely.

"Get going, Louie", Perry cut in. "I got company".

Suddenly, the door flew as Grant Gabriel, the City Editor, flushed and breathless, busted in, desperately yelling Perry's name.

"I'm busy, Grant", he said gruffly, annoyed at the distractions and lack of privacy, as he had caught on the gleam in Chloe's eyes that had him on the edge of his seat to find out what needle in a haystack she intended to pull out this time.

"Well, you're not too busy to know that the Governor hasn't signed that reprieve!"

"What?", Perry exclaimed, dropping his razor.

"And that means", Grant continued more firmly, glad to have grasped his attention, "Dr. Emil Hamilton dies tomorrow morning and makes a sucker out of us!"

"You're crazy. Where's Bernstein?"

"He's on my phone. He just called me."

"They can't do that to me!", he yelled, furiously grabbing the phone on his desk. "Give me that call on Grant's wire!", he all but barked at the operator. "Hello, Carl? Where's the Governor? What do you mean, you can't locate him? Carl, you know what this means. We're the only paper in town defending Hamilton and if he hangs tomorrow we're washed up!", he yelled in the receiver, casting an angry glance at Chloe, who had surreptitiously had a strong hand in getting him to back Hamilton, because she had flared a set up, and thought that, with a bit more time, they could build a defence. "Find the Governor and when you find him tell him we want that reprieve!... Tell him I elected him and I can have him impeached! Sure, you can do it, Carl - I know you can. I always said you were the greatest reporter in the country and now you can prove it. Get going! Attaboy!", he finished, hanging up, and turned to Grant. "The greatest reporter in the country!", he repeated sarcastically. "First I gotta tell him what news to get! Gotta tell him how to get it! Then I gotta write it for him afterward! Now if you were a decent City Editor -"

"Don't blame me", Grant interrupted his tirade. "I'm City Editor in name only. You do all the hiring around here."

"Yeah! Well, I do the firing, too", Perry retorted, not missing a beat. "Remember that, Grant, and keep a civil tongue in your head."

"Well, if you boys are done yelling about business instead of conducting it, would you pardon if I had a little _tête-à-tête_ with Perry?"

"Well - But I gotta -", they started simultaneously, looking at Perry.

"Scram, you guys", he ordered inflexibly.

They exchanged a knowing glance, as it had not escaped their notice that the young woman who was on the brink of launching her career as a star reporter at the_ Planet _had recently become a soft spot for their "as tough as old boots" editor in chief, and started to head out. Chloe eyed Perry regalingly as he sat back down, and crossed his hands on the desk, glancing at her expectantly. Walking up to his desk, she asked: "Mind if I sit down?", but sunk down in the chair, crossing her legs, without waiting for the response.

Grant and Louie, noting the exchange, cast an interested look back and lingered on the doorstep a second, prompting Perry to raise his voice a few decibels - an exploit, really: "I said scram!", to which they closed the door hurriedly.

"You won't miss anything", Chloe yelled through the door impishly. "You'll probably be able to hear him just as well outside as here." Turning her face back to Perry, she asked: "May I have a cigarette, please?" Perry reached into his pocket, extracted a cigarette and tossed it on the desk, watching patiently (which was a very rare occurrence) as Chloe reached for it. "Thanks", she said. "A match?", she continued with the hint of a smile on her lips, knowing that he was exerting restraint not to burst as he waited to see what she would lay on the table, but unable to resist toying with him a little. She found it fascinating that it was within her power to evoke such behavior from Perry "the Bulldog" White - but, if she was honest with herself, she wasn't sure how to get him to go along with her unconventional angle. She watched as he delved into his pockets again, came up with a matchbox, and tossed it to her. Catching it deftly, she struck the match alight.

"So?", he pressed.

Chloe finished lighting her cigarette, took a puff, and fanned out the match. "So what?"

"You know what", he answered slyly. "What Santa are you gonna defrock next?"

"Ah… Deception. Yes, I'm quite familiar with it, Boss. It's nothing new to any of us, you taught me that. From the moment we discover Santa's true identity, we taste deception - the sugary sweet coating that hides the mustard filling. Billboards, posters, commercials, lie equals buy, and it fuels our society. Hell, our country is cashing in on the war abroad. Every infrastructure, everything that emerges will be stained with blood; we're painting our future red."

"Cut to the chase, Sullivan", he interrupted her deliberate rant, rising from his seat, and starting toward her, as he burlesqued her lyrical speech: "I know very well you can walk me through the aisles of deceit, and take stock of what's in store. Now, what do you got?", he asked once again, sliding down in the seat beside her.

"Well, do you know that one of your reporters, that Jason Biedelman guy, fabricates stories and plagiarizes small-town reporters?"

"Great Caesar's ghost!", Perry shouted in horror, eyes widened, but he quickly caught himself to deviate her attempt to veer him off course for a bit longer. He knew Chloe was enjoying her game, but underneath his superficial irritation, he felt a surge of pride in her; the kid had spunk, and he realized he had begun to think of her as if she was his own daughter. "Fired as of tomorrow. This is where you broach the important part, kid, if you don't want to share his fate."

"Hey!", she let out, falsely outraged. "I'll have you know I could have been one of them small-town reporters. Big or small, doesn't matter - they're equally important."

Perry just stared her down, now remaining silent, refusing to give her anymore incentive. She smirked at his change in strategy, and decided to throw him a bone: "It's not about deception."

"Not about deception?", he repeated after her, uncomprehending. "Now, that's a nice thing to say. Newsflash, Sullivan, everything in this business is about deception: the unjust and the corrupt."

Chloe sat up excitedly, finally removing the lid she had put on the fire in her eyes so that it would only be a dimmer, detectable for Perry, but not for most of the men surrounding her. "That's just it, Perry! What I got is above and beyond the unjust and the corrupt. It's about hope, not deception. It's about justice and truth."

"Back up, kid. I'm a smart cookie, but I don't follow."

"Fine, I'll spell it out for you, Grandpa", she said without malice. She got up so as not to start bouncing in the chair, and once her finished cigarette was extinguished, started pacing in front of her interlocutor. "You remember how there have been numerous reports of stolen artifacts from museums and some second-hand accounts of theft from wealthy families all across the country?"

"Yes, but we're still in the deception territory, kid. I don't see bandits giving me hope."

"Step on the brakes, Boss. I'm just getting started. The last of those incidents took place here in Metropolis, two days ago. If I remember correctly, a witness mentioned seeing a dark-hooded figure climbing out of a window of the Vanderbilts' home, holding something shiny in his hands." She cast a look at Perry, and seeing that his expression remained one of confusion, she pressed on a bit faster and in a more clipped tone: "Don't you see the big picture, here? All of the stolen goods from the rich and filthy went unreported to the police by the victims. Now, that just smells fishy, _i.e._ the shiny stuff was probably bought on the black market. So, I did some more digging, and you wouldn't believe what mine I stumbled in. Every time there's such a theft, there is a mysterious, anonymous charity that pops up in the same city the very next day. And, I checked on all the museum holdings that were missing: they were unlawfully acquired and all returned to their rightful owners. We got ourselves a flesh and blood modern day Robin Hood!", she finished triumphantly, stopping to face her editor with a dazzling smile.

Perry stared at her unblinkingly for a few seconds, and then exploded into an earth-shattering laughter that made the girl slinging coffee who was passing in front of the office outside drop everything in her hands. Chloe froze and, with each passing moment watching him fail to rein in his hilarity, grew more and more offended. "Well?", she asked pointedly, when he quieted down and took a few deep breaths.

"I don't even want to know how many laws you broke to gather the information it took to cook up that story. I'm sorry, Sullivan, but if you wanted to publish fantasy stories, you should have taken a job down at _The Inquisitor_."

"Come on, Boss", she tried in a soft pleading voice, making goo-goo eyes at him and pushing her lips together in an almost irresistible pout.

"No", he said seriously. "You've got nothing, kid! And your pitch is absolutely ridiculous. What's next? Aliens walking among us! No, no, no. You're in the grown-ups' court now. If you want to stay there, stick to real, hard-core, critical journalism."

"Perry, I know I'm more or less new in this sandbox, but I don't understand why it's so how hard to believe that there are people out there working in the shadows to bring some good in this world?"

"Because of reality, Sullivan! Take a look at what's happening outside your ivory tower. There's a World War going on, massive genocide even, of which we can only fathom the extent."

"Listen, Boss. When I decided to become a journalist, I made a promise to myself that I would report what I uncovered, come hell or high water. To the Devil the repercussions, self-interests, sideline scoffers! I would put the truth into type every time the words '_By Chloe Sullivan_' ran beneath a headline. And I fulfilled that promise, and will not refrain from doing it just because of sceptics that -"

The telephone rang then, and Perry rose to his feet to answer, cutting her monologue short: "Hold it, kid!". Since her story was void, he needed to send her on another one she would probably strangle him for, and he was currently ruminating a way to con her into it.

Chloe puffed out air like an angry mare as she watched him reach for the receiver. "Hello… Yeah… What? Tom? Well, what can I do for you?". On the other side of the line, Grant was seated at his desk, talking into the phone: "What's the matter with you? Are you drunk? This is Grant, not Tom!"

Perry ignored him, and made a show of looking strikingly disappointed and panicked: "Tom! You can't do that to me! Not today, of all days! Jumping Jehosophat! Oh, no, Tom… Well, I suppose so… All right. If you have to, you have to." He hung up, and turned to Chloe: "How do you like that? Everything happens to me - with 365 days in the year - this has to be the day."

"What's the matter?", Chloe inquired, trying for patience.

"Tom."

"Dead?", she deadpanned.

"Not yet. Might just as well be. The only man on the paper who can write this - and his wife picks this morning to have a baby!"

"Tom?", she laughed outright at the false indignation on Perry's face. "Well, after all, he didn't do it on purpose, did he?"

"I don't care whether he did or not. He's supposed to be covering the Oliver Queen interview", he explained, pulling out the two-day old edition of the newspaper where an article announced the billionaire's return in town. "The man grants one once in a blue moon, and there Tom is - waiting at the hospital! Is there no sense of honor left in this country?"

Chloe rolled her eyes, wanting to get back to the issue at hand: "Well, haven't you got anybody else?"

"No… But, wait a minute. Wait a minute. I know just the person for it", he finally made his point, staring at her significantly.

"Don't mock, Perry! You want me to throw my time away buttering up some rich ladies' man to squeeze some boring story out of him? Listen, you bumble-headed big daddy, I didn't sign up for this. You know I won't hold back on doing the dirty stuff. Peeking through keyholes - running after fire engines - walking people up in the middle of the night to ask them if they think Hitler's going to bring the war here - stealing pictures off old ladies of their daughters that got chased by apemen! I'm not gonna use my ladylike attributes for a story that isn't worth it. Now, I'm telling you, I'm gonna get this one whether -"

"What were you when you came here two years ago?", he interrupted her, ignoring what she was saying. "A little college girl from a School of Journalism! I took a little doll-faced mugg -"

"You wouldn't have taken me if I hadn't been doll-faced?"

"Well of course I would. But, you gotta admit, it was a nice bonus. I thought it would be a novelty to have a face around here a man could look at without shuddering. You're a newspaper man, I know it, but don't deny you're a woman. Perfect bait for Queen."

"You can't sell me that, Perry."

"You're not afraid, are you?", he challenged, baiting her.

"Afraid? I should say not!"

"All right then, come on and go get this paragon."

"Don't you think the engagement ring will put him off?", she tried desperately, grasping at straws.

"Of course not, he's Oliver Queen. The ball-and-chain will turn him on even more. He won't know what bit him once your teeth come out!"

"Perry -"

"What is it, Sullivan? Will beating your gums with a famous beefcake put you behind the 8 ball with your kind and sweet and considerate _fiancé_?", he edged on tauntingly, knowing she was done for.

"Fine, but I'm gonna serve you Robin Hood on a silver plate, no matter what insignificant big cheese you send me after."

"Sure you are", he grumbled disbelievingly, chuckling. "Now scram!", he yelled, reaching for the phone that rang once more.

* * *

*In reference to Johnny Jones (Joel McCrea) in _Foreign Correspondent_ (1940)

**Note**: Chloe's entrance in the newsroom and some parts of her exchange with Perry are reminiscent of the opening scene of what I consider one of Howard Hawks' best screwball comedies, _His Girl Friday_ (1940). Comments, questions, insults? All are equally welcome :)


	2. You're Driving Me Crazy

**Title:** Somebody Else

**Rating:** M/NC-17 (explicit content later on will be on my LJ - the link's on my homepage - but remain suggestive here due to FF requirements)

**Summary:** Up and coming reporter Chloe Sullivan, engaged to Jimmy Olsen, sets out after a story and meets a certain billionaire who will drastically change her life. Loosely based on the 40s AU seen in_ Noir_.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

**Chapter 2. You're Driving Me Crazy**

Chloe thanked whatever Gods may be that had ensured she had left a change of clothes in the office: it was the same white blouse, nothing enticing, but it was going to suffice; she simply really didn't feel like putting in the effort. It was enough that she had to waste her precious time with some mule of a billionaire that chased every skirt around the corner - no need to add to the toll with an errand to her apartment. She half-ran to the ladies room where a bunch of copy girls were cluttered by the mirrors, chirping a wide-known gossip tune. Naturally, when they all saw her haste, the one she had come to think of as the canary in the group - with her deceptively silvery twittering - could not lay back on the breadcrumbs.

"Heavens, Chloe! Where are you rushing off to so quick?", she asked curiously. "Desperate to get away from the future husband already?"

The girls all chuckled at that, so Chloe figured she might as well get some satisfaction out of her current, rather unpleasant predicament: "Of course not, Dinah! I wouldn't be much of a woman if I needed to put a tight leash around my man to keep him, now would I? I'm meeting Oliver Queen, of all people", she dropped offhandedly, smirking when their jaws dropped synchronously. She headed for the door, and could not resist dangling the bait in their faces one last time: "A _private _interview". Her words were followed by a collective gasp, and she ushered out of the room snickering before they could shower her with questions, requests, phone numbers and what not.

As she got out on the street, she briefly considered taking the car, but figured with how jittery she was, taking the wheel to get swayed in the traffic would have anything but the calming effect she needed so as not to bite Queen's head off for side-tracking her real work. The streets were already full, bustling with ladies and gentlemen running around, cars speeding and trying to get past each other like furious ants all stubbornly headed down their own course. She smiled as she walked up to a teenage newsboy who was yelling at the passersby, lodged high on a lamppost to attract attention: "The _Daily Planet_, folks! Get it for just one buck! The latest news, fresh out the oven!".

"Hey, Jack!", she greeted him loudly over the rumble of the crowd. "Heads up!", she said, throwing him a coin.

He jumped down to hand the paper to her directly, knowing she didn't really need to buy it, but just made a point of upping his sales: "Miss Sullivan! Thanks. Nasty day today", he noted looking up at the grey sky, "Sure 's a good idea for a walk?"

"Don't worry about it, Jack. I'll jump on the trolley right down the street. Changed your spot, I see."

"Yeah. I dunno, sales went down a bit at my usual one. Figured I gotta find me a new one where they ain't used to seeing me."

"Good luck with that! Have a nice day", she said in parting, quickening her step as she saw the trolley coming to a stop at the end of the street, and jumping in as she got there.

* * *

Footwork. It's all about footwork - waking, dancing, living. Right now, one little misstep to the left or the right, a millisecond delay in mirroring your partner's movement and you're exposing yourself to a full-blown knock-out - not that his current opponent would really go for the full floor show; this was just about training, a _farce_ for him really, but Oliver could tell he was enjoying himself.

On his part, it was about showing support for the living legend, sweating his tension off a little, and, in a simultaneously physical and mystical sense, seeking that balancing point, that elasticity and flexibility of life which may stretch you and pull you down but never break you. However, the inner motivation to shape his body, push his fitness levels to the limits was truly stemming from his secret profession, not that he could divulge that: "Hey pal, you know, I got tired of watchin' crooked politicians run this country so I squeezed my _derrière_ into some skin-tight green leather to run the criminals off the streets". Land sakes alive, he sounded ridiculous, even to himself - he'd just about reinvented the eccentric billionaire. If people knew about it, Howard Hughes would slide down the ladder only a couple of steps above your average Joe.

At that moment, the heavyweight champion took a go with his sturdy arm at the head, and lost in his thoughts, Oliver barely managed to dodge the blow.

"You gotta empty your mind, man", the man instructed when they got back into their positions.

Oliver nodded in response. _He's right, you're overthinking this_, he chastised himself mentally. So he relaxed, stepping quickly around his adversary, and slid slowly into that state of inner piece he had revelled in ever since he first scaled the buildings under the moonlight. The key to it was to really let your body and your mind flow freely in the ring - there's a music to it, a sweep to it, a story. He managed to squirt the man into a corner and get a firm hold on him, landing a few well placed shots, but the lad soon wriggled out of it, and Oliver found himself on the receiving end of one of the Brown Bomber's famous right hooks, perfectly aimed to his ribs. _Ain't no doubt about it, that one's gonna bruise._

Suddenly, the bell rang loudly in the arena. _Saved by the bell, how appropriate_, he thought grimly, but then he remembered he had not set the timer. Both men, panting and dripping sweat, turned to look down to the box.

"Mr. Queen, _vous m'excuserez_ for interrupting", a young, newly employed Frenchman started nervously, literally shaking on his feet as he felt the burn of the two giants' eyes with their muscles still taut fixed on him. "You have an interview scheduled in thirty minutes, and I thought I'd give you a forefront warning should you like to spare some time for your toilette."

The professional boxer looked at Oliver, raising his eyebrows in amusement and pursing his lips to contain his laughter. Somehow, he had trouble imagining the guy he had spent the last hour throwing punches with settling himself in front of a mirror for an elaborate toilette.

Oliver chuckled at his employee's discomfort and his boxing partner's incredulity. "And by that you mean I oughta take a shower 'less I want to knock out the reporter with my manly stink. Don't sweat it, Henri. Good thinking!", he reassured the man, who, still a trifle intimidated, quickly turned his back on them and slipped out of the arena. "Well, by the looks of it, this little shindig has come to an end", Oliver announced to his partner. "I can't thank you enough for doing this. Hope you didn't fall asleep winging it with an amateur."

"No worries, Queen. I wasn't doing this to whip someone. Had a mighty good time, too. And I gotta hand it to you, for a guy so loaded, you sure aren't high-hat. Some pretty fast reflexes too."

"Quit it, you'll inflate my ego even more", Oliver replied jokingly, but felt his chest warm at the man's praise. "Ladies keep telling me it won't fit."

"Well, I'm sure you make it fit anyway, don't you?"

"Yeah, I got some moves to bypass the barriers", he quipped easily, smirking.

The boxer shook his head at the blatant innuendo - the billionaire was certainly a though one to peg down.

"On a more serious note, though", Oliver said with sincerity, "consider me an eager beaver for anything you need. How 'bout you meet me in the living room after we both take a shower, and I'll sign those papers for that youth recreation center down in Harlem? I've already booked a car for you since you have that match coming up in New York."

* * *

As Chloe stepped into the lobby of the Clocktower, she had to take a minute to admire the surroundings. Truthfully, he was a tad surprised. She had expected some Persian rugs, some elaborately carved and expensive looking wood, some heavy antiquities - basically, the style she had come to associate with billionaires ostensibly flaunting their wealth, but maybe that was just Lex Luthor. This lobby's interior design did not by any means carry the mark of a poor owner, but the large windows, the numerous round and squared shaped lamps, the glass front desk, the exotic looking plants and the modern sculptures on both sides of the elevator breathed openness, not exclusiveness. It gave the impression that anyone with enough creativity could weave his way in here without feeling like an outsider. It was refreshing, possibly the only way she could describe it was _organic_, and she wondered for a moment if Lloyd Wright was the architect behind it. _Well, at least he has good taste_, she amended ruefully.

She walked up to the front desk where a woman with an impressively voluminous updo and tight top was chewing, blowing and smacking gum while turning the pages of the latest issue of _Woman's Illustrated_.

Chloe cleared her throat to get her attention, and when the lady remained unresponsive, she loudly commandeered the attention: "Excuse me."

Miss Chewing Gum reluctantly lifted her eyes from her magazine and seized her up impassively.

"Well, he certainly likes to start his fun early."

"I have an interview with Mr. Queen for the _Daily Planet_", Chloe pointed out a little irritably, not wasting time to examine the implications of the woman's statement.

"Sure you do. Don't worry, we're not involved, no need to tame me with excuses."

"Listen, lady, why don't you check your boss' schedule. You'll see that our interview is supposed to start in a minute. Now, I have other things to do today than this little fluff piece for people who waste their time reading unsubstantial magazines and skip more than half the articles in the newspaper."

The secretary heaved a sigh and picked up said schedule, not even realizing that she had just been insulted. _Wow, he really likes them brainless_, Chloe thought. _Maybe he won't give me any trouble after all. But you're supposed to hook him_, a voice supplied in her head. She had a feeling toning down her wit would be a challenge with how riled up this ridiculous greeting was getting her.

"Look at that, you were right". _No shit, Sherlock_. "I was told to just send you up", she suddenly miraculously remembered. "He'll receive you in his penthouse suite, last floor", she finished pointing to the elevator.

"Was that so hard?", Chloe let out mockingly, unable to resist, as she turned her back to get in the elevator, hoping this one was not jammed. She really didn't need to get sweaty for this meeting. When the elevator started moving up, it hit her: _in his penthouse suite_. _What! What was wrong with a good old office with a large desk between us?_ _Maybe he was expecting Tom, laying out some cigars and some whisky for a low-key interview. Great._

When the bell dinged signalling her arrival on the top floor and the gates opened to offer her a view of a large open space leading straight into the living room, she found herself involuntarily appeased again. Even with the grey skies, the room was strikingly bright with even more lamps than in the lobby, the glass furniture and the marble floor reflecting and bouncing off the light all around like mirrors of nature - lakes, ponds, rivers. She stepped forward hesitantly, looking around for her host or anyone to acknowledge her presence.

That's when _it_ sauntered in the room from the hallway on the far left. _It_, as in the glistening, muscular animate sculpture of a perfect man that must have somehow escaped from the Greek section of the _Louvre_ or from some long lost Michelangelo's atelier or was an adult, woman's fantasy version of _Pinocchio_. _Wow_, she managed to think - even her mind had gone blank, she couldn't chance speech. She tried to tear her eyes away from its bare chest, but the tiny beads of water gliding along its every delectable dip kept her entirely entranced. That is until _it_ stopped in front of her, and spoke up.

"Please, by all means, take your time to appreciate the view, Miss. I'm in no hurry to get to the serious part now, either."

She looked up in a flash to be met by deep, warm brown eyes and a devilish smirk. Suddenly, she was furious - really, how was walking in half naked, still wet from a shower, professional? And she had met a lot of cocky, attractive men who boasted when they caught female eyes locked on them, but not one of their saucy remarks had given her this very physical urge to smack them in the kisser.

Before she could remind herself to act flustered and charming, she blurted out dryly: "Oh, I'm sorry, I must have missed the wireless that mentioned this professional encounter would be abiding by a naturist philosophy".

Oliver's pupils dilated slightly at her blunt retort, as she met his stare dead-on, unflinchingly, but he quickly back-tracked and covered his surprise: "Professional encounter, you say?", he tauntingly went on, amused, but slid his arms in the shirt he had brought in with him. "How did you envision this _encounter_? I'm fairly convinced however you pictured it would be pleasant for me."

Chloe gave him a disbelieving look, and couldn't hold back a teasing grin. "My, my, it's true what they say. You're good."

"What?"

"You're good… You're _really_ good."

He looked at her incredulously - somehow, she had turned the tables on him and he was the one under the loupe. Before he could take back the reins, his other guest, ready to leave, walked in from behind him, and the young woman currently puzzling him forgot all about his existence, her eyes bulging out of her head as she took note of the addition to their little get-together. Looking over his shoulder, Oliver realized the cause of her distraction, and proceeded to do the introductions:

"Euh, Miss…"

"Sullivan", she said, dazed.

"Miss Sullivan, this is -"

"I know who he is, you big oaf!", she interrupted, and passed him by without even sparing him another glance, bee-lining to the boxer with a megawatt smile. "Joe Louis!", she uttered, absolutely delighted, sticking her hand out. "Chloe Sullivan. I must be one of your biggest fans!"

The Brown Bomber shook her hand, his eyes wide, almost as surprised by her unreserved behaviour as Oliver. Women this tiny did not just walk up to him so unabashedly, unless they were leading him to the ring, and they certainly made no claims of being his _biggest_ fan. Oliver, on the other hand, was thinking that women did not just walk away from him like that, but then again he had never seen a woman gawking at a boxing star for reasons that did not seem to be along the lines of appreciation of his physique.

"Euh… Thanks. Pleasure to meet you."

"I must say", she continued, her eyes sparkling with admiration as she looked up at Joe, "that two minutes and four seconds long rematch with Schmeling two years ago had me jumping out of my seat. What was it, three knockouts against barely two punches for the entire bout? Having that Nazi hit the ground and throw the towel was the best graduation present I could have asked for!"

"You're welcome, I guess", Louis offered, chuckling modestly, blushing a little, and looking askance at Oliver, but the latter was having trouble picking up his jaw from the floor.

"I don't suppose you would have time for an interview?", Chloe tried hopefully.

"Unfortunately, no. I have to leave for New York", he answered with some regret, and looked pointedly at Oliver. "Could we sign those papers?"

As both of them turned to look at him, Oliver shook his head, trying to kick-start his brain again. Scratch puzzled, he was positively intrigued - and he couldn't remember when that had last happened, he doubted that it ever had to this degree.

"Wha- What? Papers? Right, papers, the youth recreation center. Over here." He made his way to a desk perched on a slight platform, and picked up a folder of files, signing the top paper on the stack and handing it to Louis.

"Youth recreation center?", Chloe inquired curiously.

"I'm funding the opening of a public center in Harlem with Joe as a head representative in order to promote youth involvement in sports and various other activities", Oliver explained. "It would be a place where young people from all backgrounds can gather freely and securely, hopefully one where they will be encouraged to dream big."

"Wow. That's… that's a wonderful idea", Chloe observed blinking several times, surprised and having a bit of trouble reconciling his passionate tone when discussing this charitable project with the raunchy one with which he had invited her to _admire the view_.

He saw her surprise, and felt his lips automatically pull up in a crooked grin: "Don't sound so surprised, Miss Sullivan, I am, despite appearances, more than a rich, lewd bastard."

"I… I… I wasn't", she babbled, feeling her cheeks burning, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Surprised, I mean", she reaffirmed, and met his doubtful, but entertained gaze. "Well, can you really blame me?", she accused, regrouping her wits. "Any of your charitable deeds must be buried somewhere deep under the mountain of headlines about your legendary performances in lounges and burlesque gentlemen clubs."

Louis burst out laughing then, and Oliver couldn't resist smiling either.

"Touché."

"Well, Queen, it's time for me to slip out. Thanks for everything. Keep working on that left hook", Louis said with a wink, saluting him as he packed up the papers. "Miss Sullivan, have a nice day."

"Wait! You simply must give me an autograph. The General is going to flip when I tell him who I ran into in the Queen penthouse", she exclaimed, sifting through her purse for some significant object he could sign, but not finding anything. She hastily grabbed the pen from Oliver's hands, threw it at Louis, and pulled out the hem of her blouse from her skirt. "Here!", she ordered, jutting out her hip so that he would be able to sign the white garment on a solid support.

Both men raised their eyebrows at her antics, but Louis quickly came up with an alternative. "That won't be necessary", he told her, pulling out a boxing glove out of his training bag and raising its value with his signature. "Don't hesitate to use it if he gives you any trouble", he joked, handing her the glove and nodding in Oliver's direction before making his exit.

Chloe was still watching, transfixed, in the boxer's way as he disappeared in the elevator, wondering if she had just dreamed him up. Oliver, on the other hand, was staring at her, waiting patiently to see when she would remember that she was actually here to interview _him_. As the seconds ticked by and she still made no move toward him, he was compelled to say something, all the while feeling disturbed that he had to, almost jealous of Louis - he had never had to work on getting anyone's attention, let alone female attention.

"Chloe… Can I call you Chloe?", he started, and she whipped her head in his direction, her eyes clearing up as if she suddenly remembered that he was here. "How would you like to sit down? I can offer you something to drink, and we can start the interview."

"Right, of course", she mumbled, realizing they were now alone and her discomfort growing upon noting that his shirt was still open, framing, she had to hand it to him, an _admirable_ picture. _What's the matter with me?_ _I'm engaged! My mouth shouldn't be watering in front of some other male specimen, especially not this one!_ So, she used her usual coping mechanism to regain control over the situation: "I'm awfully sorry you felt left out", she said with dramatic contrition. "I'll make sure you have my full attention for the next twenty minutes or so."

He smirked, having observed how her eyes had trailed over him before her snarky response. "Very funny. What would you like? I can quite literally give you anything your heart desires."

She shook her head at his persistence, smiling, although she suspected that he was now doing it on purpose just to annoy her and not because he was truly interested. "Some coffee would cut it, thanks."

"Shall I put a little rum in it? It's a nasty day."

"Why not?", she conceded - maybe it would help her relax.

"I'll be right back", he promised, heading down the hallway.

"Hey, where are you going?", she called after him.

"To get your coffee...", he said slowly, not seeing why she had to ask.

"What, no servants?"

"Not for such trifle tasks, no", he answered, chuckling at her disbelief.

Maybe he wasn't the only one intrigued here. But why he wasn't putting up more of an act to solidify his reputed carelessness was beyond him. When he came back, she was settled in one of the round _fauteuils _by the fireplace, legs crossed, notebook and pen in her lap. He took a moment to contemplate her: she was small in stature, but her skirt finely showcased generous curves he wouldn't mind getting a better glimpse at, and there was some understated elegance in her poised set of shoulders, in the gentle lines of her neck, in her striking green eyes in stark contrast against her alabaster skin. It seemed to him like she was one of those women who drew you in the longer you looked at them, one of those whose portrait you could look at a million times and always find some new subtleties to appreciate. She looked completely inoffensive - that is, until she opened her mouth or stared you down.

"Here you go", he said, getting quickly, but with a light step, by her side.

"Thanks", she said, grateful he had buttoned his shirt up, taking the cup from his hands with her right one. As she felt an uncalled for spark of electricity travel up her arm as he brushed his fingers against hers, she chanced a glance into his eyes, and their warm and enticing expression sucked her in. She was certain he had felt it too, and her blood flowed rapidly as he sank into the seat next to her, instead of the larger, more comfortable sofa on the other side of the coffee table. She took a few gulps of her drink, forcibly looking away from him toward the fireplace.

"So, tell me, Chloe, why such a big fan of boxing? Or is it just Joe that gets you going?"

"I thought I was the reporter and you were the interviewee", she observed, quick on the uptake, but after a pause, figured she might provide some explanation if she wanted him to give her open and honest answers. "My uncle is a General, and he taught me from early on to admire anyone who has some fight in them. As for Joe, well, it's simple, really. It takes courage and character to do what he does. He's a symbol of hope for everyone, and I for one think our world is in desperate need of heroes. He's accomplished and will continue to accomplish something worthwhile in his life, unlike all the shrewd businessmen who only have their personal interests at heart."

She stopped abruptly in her rant, casting a somewhat apologetic look in his direction, as she had just (unintentionally this time) aimed a jab at him when he might happen to be, from what she managed to gather from his earlier exchange with the boxer, trying to cook with gas. However, his eyes weren't reproachful or glazed over with hurt at all - they were, if possible, even more heated, and she felt herself melt under his gaze.

"What is it?", she questioned in a breathy voice, unable to fathom what granted her such unequivocal attention on his part.

"Nothing", he said quietly, smiling a bit, but his eyes were screaming the opposite. "I just find you… refreshing."

"All right, Mr. Queen", Chloe stated more firmly, shifting uncomfortably and setting down her coffee on the table.

"Call me Oliver."

"Oliver", she amended, picking up her pen. "Let's get this over with."

"Impatient to cast me away, aren't we?", he teased her.

"I would never!", she bellowed sarcastically, extracting another laugh from of him. She looked down at the list of questions she had to go through - most of them trivial, but meant to draw in female readership - and she decided _to hell with them_.

"I couldn't help but notice Mr. Louis mentioned something about your left hook", she started, earning herself another curious and surprised glance at her line of questioning - he was obviously expecting the usual light ones _Dumb Dora_s fed on. "Am I to assume you are a _dilettante_ in boxing?"

"Something like that", he replied in a cryptic tone, as if he was enjoying a private joke.

"Right, and are you also a _dilettante_ in aviation - as you recently agreed to mount planes for the army? I'm sure you've caught wind of it, but recently, one of the military planes has crashed, causing the death of 21 of our soldiers, because of faulty parts bought from small producers and put together by a larger company."

"Yes, I am well aware of the incident, but trust me, the aviation wing, and pretty much any department of QI is subjected to tight quality control before the technology is put on the market. While we're on that topic, I'm also very interested in establishing commercial and accessible flights in the future. If more people were able travel the world, they could gain global awareness to counterbalance the current state of affairs where extreme nationalism leads to incessant war. I think increased communication between peoples would garner more support for establishing clear laws protecting human rights", he concluded, making a pregnant pause to let her take his stance in, all the while wondering what had possessed him to blurt all of that out. Chloe, on her part, was awestruck by his confidence and his strong set of opinions that espoused every value she herself upheld, but also contradicted virtually everything that she had heard about the man facing her. "Oh and, just so we're clear, Chloe, even things that I do as a _dilettante_ as you say, rest assured that I'm good at them", Oliver added with a wink, shredding the charged silence that had taken them under its cloak.

"Well aren't you just modest?", she cracked, rolling her eyes, but she would be lying if she said she wasn't enjoying their repartee.

And Chloe continued, getting much more than she bargained for when she had walked into his penthouse. It was very probable that the young Mr. Queen would be the focus of an article that, for the first time, would shed light on something other than his bachelor exploits. As for Oliver, he kept baffling himself by his candor with the young lady he barely knew, even when she asked one of the most delicate questions for him.

"Now, tell me, what's it like being the youngest head of a company in the U.S. of A.?"

"Lonely", he let out unthinkingly, and her emerald eyes flashed at him again, enchanting him into elaborating his claim. "Between you and I, I'd much rather have my parents still alive, and my old man riding the horse for a few more years than having free reign myself so soon."

"Oh, how silly of me. I'm terribly sorry", Chloe quickly offered, feeling awful about her earlier question regarding plane parts - she had forgotten to consider that his parents had died in a plane accident when he was a child; of course he would do everything in his power so that no one suffered the same fate.

"Don't worry about it", he reassured her with a smile, once again nonplussed as to why he wasn't bragging instead of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

As the interview was coming to an end, Chloe was struck at once by the realization that the thefts she wanted to look into had started in Star City, and Oliver was a member of the wealthy community of Star City. She felt comfortable enough by now to ask him about it - at the risk of having him laugh in her face as Perry had - but she hesitated about how to broach the subject.

"Well, Oliver, I'm afraid this is it for your personal interview", she said, mockingly afflicted, while she packed her belongings in her purse. She was about to weave her way into discussing the whole modern Robin Hood (she really had to find a more edgy name for him) issue, when he sidetracked her completely.

"Go out with me."

"What?"

"I said go out with me."

She looked at him dumbfounded. She had assumed the flirting was just for show. Had he not seen the ring? "I… I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm engaged, that's why", she curtly answered when he stubbornly persisted, lifting her left hand to reinforce her point.

For a fraction of a second, Oliver looked crestfallen. How had he managed to miss the ring? _Maybe because your were too busy drowning in her eyes_, his brain supplied. But then, just as fast as the disappointment had appeared, it was gone, and he smirked, his eyes sporting a shrewd glint. She was _engaged_, not _married_. And she didn't say she didn't _want_ to go, but that she _couldn't _go.

"Fine, than go with me as a friend."

"I'm sorry, but that wouldn't be appropriate, considering it wasn't friendship you were offering."

"Well I'm offering now."

"Learn to take no for an answer, will you?", she said with finality, getting up, now definitely irked by his pigheadedness.

"Ah, come on, Chloe!", he pleaded, standing up as well as he made puppy-dog eyes at her, and she almost laughed at the picture he painted, but he was too damn good looking to laugh at. "Cut a guy some slack. I don't have many friends in town - it's only my second time here. And this is without a doubt the most pleasant interview I have ever given - and not just because you're nice to look at. Don't forget to pass on my thanks to your editor for that little offering, by the way."

"You're not helping your case, here, Queen."

"Let me buy you and your _fiancé _lunch."

"You want to buy my _fiancé_ lunch?"

"And why not? I want to meet the fella that managed to catch such a slippery fish."

"A slippery fish?"

"Of course, brains and beauty. You're a hard one to hook. He obviously has hook and line - if it's also sinker, there's nothing wrong about my meeting him. You're not afraid, are you?"

"Oh no! I'm not falling for that one twice in a day. Look, Oliver, we don't know each other. Thanks for the interview - and I guarantee you will be pleased with the outcome - but this is the end of the line for us", she finished, extending her hand for him to shake.

He pursed his lips, eying her hand wearily, before taking it, and with deliberate slowness, bringing it to his lips as he aimed the fire of his eyes at her one more time. She felt herself wavering under the warm touch and the burning look, so she donned a tight smile not to show how much he affected her. As soon as he dropped her hand, she almost ran to the elevator, and refused to look back at him as she got in, but before the gates closed on her, she heard his words, both a promise and a threat, spoken with a smile in his voice: "I'll be seeing you."

* * *

**Note: **I think you'll all agree with me when I say that a shirtless Oliver Queen is timeless. Also, they really did put rum in their coffee - the Americans in the 40s were fascinated by the Latin American world. Oh, and I'm a sucker for Reinhardt, had to choose one of his songs for the chapter: if you're feeling the gypsy jazz, check out _Minor Swing_, definitely his most famous one, but I also really like _Bouncin' Around_, much less known. So, what are your thoughts on this little meet-cute?


	3. Smallville Nocturne

**Title:** Somebody Else

**Rating:** M/NC-17 (explicit content later on will be on my LJ - the link's on my homepage - but remain suggestive here due to FF requirements)

**Summary:** Up and coming reporter Chloe Sullivan, engaged to Jimmy Olsen, sets out after a story and meets a certain billionaire who will drastically change her life. Loosely based on the 40s AU seen in_ Noir_.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**The two following chapters are intended as a rewrite of some of **_**Noir**_**'s plot twists, one drawing our protagonists' orbits a tad closer. Feedback would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy!**

**Story with artwork and song links on LiveJournal; username: veni_vidi_vixi.**

* * *

**Chapter 3. **_**Smallville **_**Nocturne**

**A young man whose reputation is the finishing line of countless misleading roads originating from some point of truth, Oliver Queen has in actuality much more to offer than the glimmer of his notorious brand. Overrated _prouesse_ behind the curtain and underrated _expertise _in the boardroom combine to make him a promising, yet dangerous offshoot for the deep-rooted world of business. By and large, Mr. Queen is a man to watch.**

_And to avoid_, Chloe revised mentally as she wrapped up the proof for her typed article. The drawn memory of his smoldering gaze at her exit from the penthouse spoke of a whole other form of danger. Unbidden, the thought of a promising aspect to that danger as well took seat in a corner of her mind. Wading through her words, some part of her remained recalcitrant at voicing praise bound to exalt her interviewee's already potent self-importance, but a greater part was delighted to bring something refreshing to the table where Oliver Queen was concerned. In the now barely lit and silent newsroom, safe for the rustling of files by a few crime reporters and the dulled sounds travelling from the switchboard room, she lost herself in reliving the day's surprising turn of events.

"Reading it till your eyes bulge out of your head is not gonna improve it any, sweetheart."

The slurred advice spoken in a baritone voice against her ear reverberated from her eardrum deep down to her cochlea, almost knocking Chloe out of her chair.

"Bloody fucking hell!" she exclaimed loudly, the curse echoing and gluing the few pairs of eyes present on her. Clutching her chest in an attempt to synchronize her ticker's rhythm again, she turned her head slightly to be met with the laughing face of Johnny who was still leaning forward, palms planted on each side of her, and calling her hand for a nice sound slap. "Are you bats! Trying to bump me off with the earliest heart attack in history, are you?"

"Of course not, angel," he managed to articulate, regaining some of his composure, but decidedly sporting a much too amused expression for Chloe's likes. "What would I do without your pretty face around here? No, a heart attack is not your way to go - your_ sortie _needs more romance. Can't say the same for your _fiancé_ though with that colourful language of yours," he carried on, morphing his features into a mock austerity. "You don't hear a woman use such language. St. Paul said 'Let a woman be silent, and -'"

"You can mind your own bloody business," Chloe snarled, still too shaken to tolerate his teasing. "And so can St. Paul! You don't tail dozens of Union soldiers and sailors tangled up in the black market without picking something up. And I'll have you know, my piece is certainly not begging for improvement - I was simply savouring the end result."

"Now, now, don't snap your cap, Dollface. I meant to tell you there was no need to go over what is without a doubt already perfect. So what's this story that's got you flying off the handle?" Johnny asked, trying to get a look at her script. "_By and large, Mr. Queen is a man to watch._ Well, well, well…" he drawled out, now positively regaled. "Has the day come for the great Chloe Sullivan to react like every broad out there and have the hots for _Billionaire Boy_? Is that why you were so lost in your head - busy daydreaming about his fiery eyes? His dazzling smile? His lascivious hand-kissing?"

Chloe went beetroot as she realized that the description anchored itself not that far from what she was indeed doing, then turned her flush into one of frustration at herself and aimed it at Johnny for shamelessly nagging her.

"Hardy har har! You're absolutely right - I truly have nothing better to do then become the latest Queen addict. If you were to read the article, you'd find little more than the commonplace remarks concerning him that people already fill the magazines with. Not a sarcastic play on their shallowness. Or an emphasis on some of his more important qualities. Why would a _broad _, such as I am - with functioning eyes - , have any interest in him unrelated to his looks?"

"Ooh. Touchy! The chap really got under your skin, didn't he? You wound me, Miss Sullivan," he continued jokingly, unmerciful. "I've been working on you non-stop since the day you announced your engagement to squeeze you out of a boring marriage. Queen has one meeting with you, and you're all shook up."

Chloe rolled her eyes, the inkling of a smile now on her lips, as she slowly fell back into their routine and decided to stop dishing out more bait. "Is there a reason you came here to disrupt my peace besides having a ball at my expense?"

"Yeah," he admitted, moving to sit on her desk. "Wanted to see why you were working so late. And I saw Olsen wasn't. You should go home before the streets get too empty. I'd give you a ride, but I'm on the clock. How about I call you a taxi?"

"That's sweet, Johnny, but no worries, I have my car. I just wanted to finish this article on the interview so I could focus on my other leads."

Johnny opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Chloe interrupted him knowingly: "And no, I'm not telling you anything about them. I think I've provided you with a fair amount of entertainment for the night."

"See, that's where you're wrong, sweetheart. No amount of entertainment involving you is too much, especially at night," he toyed, smirking, closing his remark, as per custom, with a wink.

"You just keep 'em coming, don't you?" Chloe observed, slightly in awe. "I don't know how you do it… I'm beat after the day I had."

"_Billionaire Boy_ tire you out?"

"All right, I set myself up for that one," she conceded, as Johnny chuckled at her blush. "I think I'll just pack up my things and take a powder. Thanks for the concern."

"Anytime," he offered, this time smiling without the flippant edge and kissing her on the cheek before heading back to his desk. "Take care."

"You too, Johnny," Chloe called out, as she got to her feet and started clearing her desk, refusing to ponder why she was suddenly acting like a _little college girl from a School of Journalism_, as Perry had cracked this morning. Turning into a tomato every second _**he**_ was mentioned, musing abstractedly on every phrase that had been uttered by _**his**_ tantalizing mouth, being haunted by the rich coffee pools that were _**his **_eyes - and all the while being uncomfortably aware that she should be having such a reaction to Jimmy, what with being engaged to him. _He just threw you off kilter, that's all_, she reassured herself. _He wasn't a total fat-head, and he asked you out. Unexpected, that's all there is to it. You'll be back to your cool self in no time._

She was all but ready to leave the building and head straight for her warm bed for some much needed rest when the telephone rang. Turning her eyes skyward, she harbored for an instant the idea of simply ignoring the offensive ringing, but naturally her curiosity, that never slept, won out. She just hoped whoever or whatever it was would not be dragging her night out or requiring some physical activity.

"Sullivan for the _Daily Planet_. How can I help you?"

"Cuz, you gotta get your patootie over here," came the stern voice of Lois Lane through the receiver. "Your fella's trying to pass for a lounge lizard, and it ain't working."

* * *

Some time later, Chloe was pulling her red 1938 Dodge Coupe in the alley behind the infamous _Talon Club_, seeing as the curb on the street was overflowing, grumbling about silly _fiancés _and well-meaning cousins. Uncaring of the need to remain conspicuous, she smashed the car door upon extirpating herself out of the seat that only reminded her of the comfortable nest at home she was supposed to be cocooning in. She stomped loudly around the building in the high heeled shoes that had long ago murdered her feet in this never-ending day, not seeing further than the end of her nose until she turned the corner. _Bloody fucking hell!_, she blasphemed silently as she froze on the spot. Either the curse had been proclaimed her motto for the night by some otherworldly force or she had rather exhausted her strength for reserve.

Taking in the closed door guarded by lackeys and most certainly more torpedoes awaiting in the lobby, Chloe found her frustration soaring. _The Talon_'s trademark exclusivity was precisely what made it the hub of all the corrupted upper-crusters of the city as well as its powerful immigrant wheeler-dealers who had no intention of being American cannon fodder, a fact that had somehow slipped her drowsy mind_. Must be coffee deprivation_, she mused._ The last coffee I took was… Oh great! Oliver Queen's. Damn billionaire filled up my whole day and only filled me one cup of coffee. But it was snazzy… And he was intriguing… Focus, Sullivan!_, she ordered herself, determined to dispel any further _reveries _about coffee, Oliver Queen and his roasting coffee bean eyes_._

_How the heck did Jimmy get in? _Clearly, her _fiancé_ had not spent his entire day being lulled to sleep by the senator's campaigning speeches. _He must be chasing a riveting story, and have a powerful informant at that, to risk compromising his reputation and venturing out into this gin mill_. She refused to dwell on the lecturing he would have unleashed on her if she had been the one to attempt such a hairy outing; enough distractions were plaguing her as it was. One look at her watch told her Lois would be unable to sneak her in through some backdoor; she was too busy sliding into some fluid piece of fabric and donning matching silky gloves for her _femme fatale_ number. One look at her simple high waist black skirt and buttoned up trench coat covering her white blouse told her she could not pass for a call girl or some golddigger arriving later than her El Dorado; the promiscuous women inside were unquestionably togged to the bricks. Finally, one look at the valet, opening the door of a Delahaye 135 convertible, who was eying her strangely told her that she could not afford to arouse any more suspicion by dumbly standing around. So, she marched to the door deciding to play it by ear.

As soon as she entered the place and made for the curtain leading to the main floor, she was met, as expected, by a plenty rugged bouncer.

"Can't go in there, Miss," the man barked, pushing Chloe back with the large hand he laid along the length of her collarbone.

Biting back the neat retort she had on the tip of her tongue, Chloe opted for the cover that came the closest to going hand in hand with her modest appearance: "Hey there, cool your jets, mac," she tried sweetly, batting her eyelashes, although she had a sneaking suspicion the fella would be as cold below the waist as he was above it. "See, I was called for a replacement. One of them waitresses dropped an ice bucket on her hand, and well, the old man can't have her strutting around spilling the best booze on guests."

"Ain't everyone of you dames?" he answered bluntly, unblinking.

"Now, come on, don't be an ickeroo. I don't want any trouble, honest. I just…"

"Sorry, doll, I've heard it already tonight. Since ain't no one coming out here to get you like they did for that other fink with the newsy smile, you're gonna have to leave."

"Look, I'm just an apron who wants to do her extra shift," Chloe persisted, filing the comment about the _other fink_ she was currently chasing after for later consideration. "You really gonna deny a gal some pennies from heaven?"

"I suggest you walk out before I throw you out," the chump unflinchingly commanded once again. "Handling dames 's not a habit of mine."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed," Chloe muttered, before heaving a defeated sigh and heading out.

She bypassed the lurking valet to return to the quiet comfort of the almost dark alley and lean against her car to regroup. _Maybe I could just take a nap in the Dodge and wait for the twit to come out. _Only she was kidding herself: first, she couldn't rest if she wasn't sure Jimmy was safe; second, she was itching to know what scoop he was sitting on; third, if there was any time to try to dig out something about the Emil Hamilton affair Perry had wanted to strangle her over today, it was now as the scum whose patsy the poor guy was would be likely to keep a seat warm in this frolic pad. As she was tallying up her gazzilionth mental pep talk, she cast an glance around the backstreet. Her eyes settled on a large trash container stacked away from the secluded backdoor, some six feet under the extremity of a balcony's platform. Given its remote location, it was bound to lead into the performers' backstage area. _Great! So much for no physical activity. Shouldn't have answered the damn telephone._

* * *

Gliding down his zip line from a taller building, Oliver landed smoothly on the roof of the old Bayside Hotel standing across _The Talon Club_'s alleyway. He dismounted his arsenal and repackaged it, religiously checking the apparatus that had taken him a year to bring from the impeccable drawing to the functioning multitask weapon.

He had not been planning any stakeouts tonight, and, much to his shame, had spent the better part of his time allotted to company paperwork daydreaming about the wonderfully witted dilly that had managed to catch him off guard. No amount of reprimanding himself for succumbing to such frivolousness could chase Chloe away from his mind, so he figured he'd map out a plan to make his way to her again to rid himself of this unfamiliar distress. He was doing just that when he received a wire from the Governor's assistant he had anonymously paid for information, who tipped him on the fiasco that tomorrow's hanging of Dr. Emil Hamilton was turning into. Apparently, a well-placed call from _The Daily Planet_'s Editor in Chief had pulled out a last minute reprieve out of a hat firmly kept on the heads of mob titans or some politicians protecting their covert affairs that were quick to reschedule a meeting with the Governor tonight. A tech-savvy guy newly under Oliver's employment had intercepted the secret _communiqué_, and said_ rendez-vous _was set to start in _The Talon_'s alley before movingon to an unknown location.

Walking to the ledge of the roof, Oliver intended to make himself comfortable and wait for the telltale Sedan with tinted windows that would pull into the alley and pick up two or more _gentlemen _coming through _The Talon_'s backdoor. What he saw when he got there however stopped him in his tracks.

It was no pants, but a skirt that met his eyes. The short woman, whose back was to him, was scaling a comparatively huge container and not with little difficulty. Her heels kept slipping when she jumped to latch onto the top, and the trench coat she was adorned with paralyzed her arm movement. Feet on the ground again, she bravely took one huge leap and hurried to propel herself with one kick against the trash, only to lose her grip when her traitorous shoe slid once more, this time causing her to fall flat on her back on the concrete.

"Bloody fucking hell!" she yelled in an echoing crystal timbre at the sound of which Oliver's ears opened further_._

_It couldn't be_, he thought, squatting down to stay out of view. Realization dawned when her features came into light as she rolled to prop herself up on her knees, now facing him. _It is. _Chloe arched her back, her face contorting into an adorable grimace, before jumping up with an air of pure frustration. She trooped toward a car, taking the cumbersome coat off and mumbling a string of curses that would by all standards be considered unfit to come out of such a lovely mouth. But, because it was _**her**_ mouth, Oliver found himself leaning forward to listen and look at her to his heart's desire.

_What in the God's name is she doing here!_, he wondered, increasingly disturbed as the shock and instant joy of running into her were fading slowly to make some room for reason. _ Has she no sense of self-preservation? And when will she stop catching me off guard?_ He meticulously appraised her expression, and noted that while she appeared to be tired, and while he had already seen the fire in her eyes that had hooked him during their interview, now the emerald irises were obscured by markedly dilated pupils to let ablaze a raging inferno. He really should not have been aroused at that moment, but he couldn't help it; she was far too passionate and unpredictable for him not to be. The way she was sashaying her hips, all concerns of propriety and professionalism long forgotten, was not helping either and had him salivating to taste how wild she would be between the sheets.

Still fretting and fuming, she threw her coat in the vehicle and took her shoes off before yelling at the sky arms spread out: "Would it have been that hard for you to make me a couple inches taller!"

Oliver bit his tongue to hold in the laughter that was dangerously bubbling up in his throat. Only, Chloe was unrelenting and went on with her tirade.

"Even better, couldn't you have had the presence of mind to give me bigger boobies so I wouldn't need to climb the damn building at all!"

There was no way around it, he burst out laughing and had to stuff his hand into his mouth to muffle it as best as he could. The slight whistling noise snapped Chloe out of her trance, and she surveyed the hotel's roof warily while Oliver sunk lower in his spot.

As he got a grip on himself, he pondered over coming down to either help her, chase her away or simply assure her that her _boobies_ were just fine. _Focus, Queen!_ He dismissed the idea of revealing himself unless absolutely necessary; while Oliver Queen was exposed to media slaughter, he had committed himself to keeping his second identity in the shadows due to the underhanded nature of his methods. The government would not look kindly upon an unaccounted for individual snagging all their military antlers, and he had enough reporters on his back as it was. More importantly, however, he really did not want to be on Chloe's radar; she would have him unmasked at light speed with that quick mind of hers. He chanced a glance down and raised an eyebrow at the grim determination that was painted on her face.

She made a beeline to the container, catapulted her heels to the top of it and did something that nullified any amount of concentration Oliver had summoned. Hiking up her skirt to her waist, she presented him with a view of black lace panties form-fitted to the juiciest ass he had ever laid eyes on, and that was saying something. There was no way of stopping his mind from hurtling down to the gutter, no more than preventing his blood from cascading southwards at break-neck speed. What followed were images that would forever remain imprinted on his retina: the perky blonde hurling herself at the container, climbing it with newfound agility in focused anger, and perching herself on all fours with her rear jutted out towards him before attacking the balcony with the same verve, all the while lightly grunting in a way that called an uninvited party of Oliver's to attention. _Damn. Good thing I didn't decide to give her a hand. Even my steely reserve in business would have been no match for that. _Shaking his head to clear it as he watched her disappear through the balcony's entrance, he resolved to keep an eye out for her. She was obviously mixing herself up in dangerous business. _Stupid, hot, smart-ass little blonde._

* * *

Dusting her skirt off just as she had straightened it, Chloe looked around, proud of her incursion into what was, as suspected, a changing room for the performers and also, from the looks of it, a stock room for all the quality booze bought on the black market. Currently, the flock of hoofers and drool worthy women were lined up in front of a long mirror plastered to the wall next to the door. They were too busy pampering themselves and mindlessly chattering to notice her, and so was the waitress who stormed in and out of the room grabbing some bottles.

"I tell you, ladies, Luthor is a real Sheik," a tall, curvaceous brunette announced loudly to the room. "Just look at him tonight. Mighty fine man. Even if he was poor, I'd get in his car."

"You don't say," chimed in a redhead.

"What! The chrome-dome?" added incredulously a blonde. "If you ask me, he grandstands too often. He might be the butter and egg man, but he's spread and hatched by _Lana Lang,_" she continued with rueful admiration. "You want a Valentino to be grabbed, rich or poor? Oliver Queen. Now, that is a fella I'd pitch woo with every night."

Chloe rolled her eyes and tuned out the naively aspiring Andrews Sisters to avoid lingering on Queen again and to search for Lois, in that order of priority. She smiled when she spotted her preparing for her starring act, being all jumpy by the end of the mirror, the farther away from the door. She never saw Lois nervous, and she was certain that by now every single man that had seen her perform was tripping over his feet for another look.

With the familiar stab of regret, she mused on how useful Lois' current position would be for first class investigative reporting. Unlike Chloe however, after painstakingly graduating from the School of Journalism, Lois had chosen to walk down her own path and it led her underground. _Waste of potential, that's what it is_, Chloe thought. _She's still trying to find herself_, she amended hopefully. _Maybe she'll eventually come around. _She was about to accost her to be clued in on Jimmy's late night adventure, but the door burst open revealing a chubby cellist.

"You're on, Miss Lane. Spotlight's set to light up in a minute."

Lois took a deep breath, erasing any trace of doubt from her face, and as graciously and sensuously as a swan headed to make her grand entrance, blind to the flipping duck her cousin had turned into by the balcony door to grab her attention.

As she faded into the light beyond, Chloe was quick to adapt her approach. She grabbed a forgotten waitress tray and piled some glasses and random bottles on it, hoping her inner klutz had no particular desire to take the stage tonight. Trailing Lois's steps, she waited until the projector followed the star down the stairs to melt in the shadows, using the diverted attention of the public to her advantage.

_**Doo doo-doo doo-doo doo**_**.**

The opening notes of a musical spell resonated in the tobacco-scented man-made cavern, drawing everyone's eyes from their table dealings to the siren who had belted them out. From her hiding point, Chloe spotted Jimmy beyond Lois' shoulder, seated at the bar and, to her dismay, gawking at her cousin. She felt at once insignificantly small and irrationally furious.

_Haven't you spent half your day mooning about for another man?_, she tried to rationalize. This was different, though. Lois and turning heads were always coupled, and Chloe had long ago accepted that she'd never take a crowd's breath just by walking in. But, insecurities notwithstanding, their engagement and Lois being family should be reason enough to go for subtlety and restraint.

_**I want somebody else, somebody who could be… Someone, not like yourself, but somebody who loves me.**_

Jimmy suddenly came to his senses, but not of his own volition. She followed his gaze to the person responsible for preventing her from blowing their covers by impulsively tumbling down the stairs to screw her _fiancé_'s saucer eyes back into his head.

_What in the name of Sam Hill! _Clark Kent with a "K" was stripped of his glasses and his bumbling aura, lounging confidently by Jimmy's side. _He must have been the one to cast the bouncer off Jimmy. _Her head spun as she proceeded to store the new puzzle piece. _This night is getting weirder by the second. _Having reached the bottom of the stairs without so much as a look from anyone, she carefully circumvented the bar, turning her back to the duo, and proceeded to serve the tables at the rear-end of the room.

"What's your fancy, sir?"… "Can I offer you anything, Ma'am?"

Whisky sour and gin fizz were respectively the watchwords for gangsters and their molls, as well as businessmen and their beautifully begowned and bejeweled women. Even keeping tabs on Jimmy, she caught bits and pieces of exchanges muffled by laughter and music that spiked her appetite for an undercover job in the place.

"Give me the lowdown on this K balling business you got going?"

"Madison Avenue's the richest harvesting ground. People just don't lock their wheels there."

… "The trucks are waiting, the men are waiting. Everything is - a whisky sour, if you will, kitten."

… "Heard about Gutman's quest? Apparently, he traced the Falcon to the home of a Russian general - one Kemidov - in an Istanbul suburb. Sent some of his - ah - agents to get it. They got it alright, but he didn't. His chumps were all sold out to Luthor over there."

_The Maltese Falcon? _Chloe felt like a squirrel in a field of nuts; she had no idea which to put in reserve and which to feast on right away. Every hint of a story blinded her as would the sight of the legendary golden bird, encrusted from head to toe with the finest jewels of the Crusading Knights. At the mention of Luthor, however, she focused on his table and saw that Jimmy and Clark were observing them closely too. Surreptitiously, she edged closer to Lucifer Senior and Junior, lingering just within ear range as the first lit up the cigarette of the latter.

"Who's your new heavy?" Lex asked with a semblance of interest.

"Ah, relax. I got nothing on Kent so far but his tab," Lionel offered begrudgingly.

"Losing your grip, pops. You used to run this town. Now it looks like the only shots you're calling are from behind that bar."

The son chucked mockingly, the father scowled childishly. And, from the corner of her eye, Chloe could see Clark and Jimmy parting as her _fiancé_'s suspicious looks were aimed at the power pair now separating as well.

_**I'd walk right out the door, if I could only get the nerve. And I'd find, someone kind, like I know I deserve.**_

She busied herself ridding the table she was mindlessly attending to of its empty glasses before her attention was called to Lex again by his hushed instructions to his companions.

"I expect you to bring out the big guns tonight. You know the drill, we blow in a couple of minutes."

"What's the story with the girl? She just a cover?"

"She's none of your beeswax. Make a mistake tonight, and you'll be worse than fired. This thing has gone on for too long."

"Of course, Mr. Luthor. But, still, you've put Mrs. Luthor under our surveillance, and I'm not sure what she's been…"

"Enough shop talk, Richman. Let me enjoy the music. You should do the same, the gobble-pipe's aces."

As their voices were drowned in the hum of the room, Chloe took a peek at the bar once more, and when she caught sight of Lionel making his way toward Jimmy, she decided to regard it as her cue to go to the backdoor area for refills. Just as she was passing by, Lionel leaned in close, offering advice:

"If it's young Luthor you're tailing, I got a tip for you, on the house. Every night he makes a big exit. Makes sure the whole joint knows it. But when his car pulls out of the alley… he's not in it."

_So, he's after Lex, huh?_, Chloe pondered as she dodged out of Lionel's field of view by stepping in the immediate supply room behind the counters. _Funny, last time I wanted to go after him, he insisted that it was a terrible idea. "Man's got to own half of Metropolis," he said. "Including a certain building at 1000 Broadway. Big globe on top. You could lose us our jobs." Ridiculous! What's changed his mind all of a sudden?_

Shortly after, when Lex got to his feet, his crew on his tail, and Jimmy cautiously followed in their wake, she moved out of her hideout and was about to take his lead until Lionel's smirk cut her short. Glancing away from her _fiancé_'s retreating back, he reached for the telephone on the counter. Following instinct, she backpedaled and narrowed in on a secondary wire hanging next to an impressive rum barrel. She picked it up and got the heebie-jeebies from Lionel's deep voice:

"Yeah, it's me. We got him. Boy Wonder just took the bait."

"Great," a familiar voice answered, rooting Chloe to her spot. "I can't wait for this suffocating marriage to be over."

"As long as he goes the whole way, I'll stay on board. If he doesn't, don't count on my loyalty."

"Don't worry, you'll get your throne in lowlife land back."

The abrupt hanging up on the line found Chloe still frozen, unable to register anything other than: _Jimmy's being conned by Lana. My Jimmy. My Lana._ She was so lost in her thoughts that the dark figure entering the room did not make her blink, that is until he recognized her.

"You! How the hell did you get in here?"

Jumping out of her skin, Chloe dropped the telephone and came to face with the furious hatchetman who had threatened to get physical with her in the first place.

"Sorry, Miss, but I got orders for taking care of spies, dame or not. Joe! Marty!" he cried out, before digging his rod out of his pants.

Before he could pull the trigger, Chloe flew the coop, taking the hallway to run for the alley.

* * *

It seemed she had to end the day like she started it: sweating like a pig. Only now, her energy levels were hitting a flat, and her pursuers' appeared to be soaring high. _They probably sleep till noon each day, barhop till five, then guard titans and chase innocent ladies into the night_, she thought. _Fine, not innocent. _Still, it really would be a downer to make her exit this way. _No romance in it at all_, she noted, and Johnny would undoubtedly agree. And with that last thought, she hit a cul-de-sac.

"Nowhere to run to now, huh, sweetheart?" drawled the leader of the pack of gorillas, as they all closed in on her.

"Let's have some fun with this one, guys. Feisty enough to make it this far. Be a shame to let the opportunity slide."

"I'm afraid not, Joe. Could have had me killed for sneaking in like that. We ain't getting close."

And just like that, Chloe was staring down the barrel of a .45. The last thing she heard was the sound of the bullet cutting through the air on its way to her head.


End file.
